Hunger
by Chiore
Summary: The orphans of Winterfell come pestering their favorite blacksmith for a scary story, so he tells them about his old friend, the goddess of death. Fluffy Gendrya one(?)-shot.


**AN:** So the Gendrya bug bit, as it it's probably bitten you two after the last episode, seeing as you're here. I might do more with this but I'm also in the middle of my last quarter of college and can't seem to finish a damned thing that's not an assignment at the moment. I hope this is complete enough its current form, though I would love to play more with this pairing in the future! Preferably while they're both still alive...

Title is a nod to the song by Florence + the Machine!

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A firm weight struck Gendry in the calf. It loosened his grip on the fistful of arrows in his hand, and they clattered to the ground. The chiming of obsidian hitting stone rang out a deadly harmony with the pealing laughter of children.

"Bloody hell, Gretchyn," he shouted, wrenching the boisterous, giggling girl off his leg and into the air with one arm. She draped over his sturdy forearm like a sack of horse feed. All four of her tiny child's limbs dangled limply beneath her so they swung freely as he moved her to the door, loose as willow branches in the wind. He dropped her next to her brother, two years above her in age but just as small and half as confident. The boy stood just outside the door, peering into the workshop timidly and regarding the blacksmith with the wide-eyed reverence due a highborn lord. Gendry had always heard that his own lord father had been the very image of a king in his youth; tall and strong and proud. Of late, he had tried to emulate these attributes. He was built in the style of a Baratheon, and while the house of Storm's End had died out without a trueborn heir he meant to carry their honor forward on his two shoulders as the last of their living blood. Fortunately for his hide, the gold cloaks had never bothered to pay much mind to the baseborn, working folk as to notice the last crowned stag hiding beneath their boots, warhammer and all. Only orphaned urchins seemed to take note.

Kneeling to the level of the children, he tousled the boy's hair reassuringly but did his best to remain stern. "I told you two, the smithy is a dangerous place, and we have important work to do here. You can't come 'round while I have the fires lit or you won't even survive long enough for the wights to get you."

"But I'm not scared!" Gretchyn protested, her yellow curls bouncing as she shook her head with indignation. "I wanted to show Dalon that he can be not scared, too."

"I'm already not scared!" Dalon injected, though he continued to eye the furnaces with suspicion, like it was one of the queen's dragons disguised with the aim to lure him into its maw, and it might reveal itself at any moment. "I came for your stories, really. You have such good ones. I want to hear more about your days on the Kingsroad."

Gendry shook his head with a warm smile. "I already told you, the Kingsroad was too dangerous to stay on long. The smaller roads were much more interesting anyway." He relented and waved them into the warmth of his workshop. These two were refugees from a northern village by the sea and had tacked onto the royal caravan along with the rest of the country folk on their path inland. They'd quickly latched on to Gendry during the journey, possibly recognizing the orphan in him, too, and he'd taken a liking to them as well. Inside, he sat them well away from the flames and hammers and passed them each a crust of bread from his earlier untouched rations. "Now, which story did you come to hear?"

"I want to heard a new one!" Dalon asserted around a mouthful of rye. "Surely you haven't told them all yet."

"Make it a frightening one!" Gretchyn chimed in. "Tell us about the bloodiest battle you've been in. Or the deadliest man you ever met."

He did have a story to go along with her second request, though it was one he kept close to his heart. He thought Gretchyn in particular might enjoy it, however, so he inhaled deeply and conceded, seating himself on a bench across from them. Men continued to bustle around them, but he still hadn't touched his evening stew - now cold - so they could do without him for a bit. He picked up the bowl and started, "Aye, I've met some deadly men in my travels. I could tell you about them… but I could also tell you about the time I met Death herself." He raised his spoon to his lips and took a long, innocent sip.

The children's eyes grew wide. "Death is a _her_?" the girl blurted out. Her tone was mystified and gleeful.

"A she-_wolf_." Gendry corrected. "The Goddess of Death is a direwolf, just like the Stark sigil. She's a small one, to be sure, the smallest of her pack, but she's killed dozens more than the rest of them combined. Her jaws are inescapable and her teeth are all needles." He exaggerated his tone and motioned with his hands to give drama, but his words were all true in a sense. "She's as fast and nimble as a river. I've heard she can wear any face, but when I met her she was disguised as a young boy no older than you, Dalon. Only those she counts as friends know her true form… Her friends, and the wretches who anger her. Those poor sods know her face and name just in the final moments before she claims their souls… and their faces."

Gretchyn's eyes never left his lips, drinking in every word like it was part of a prayer she had to know for her own. Dalon had brought his knees up to his face and pretended to lean on them, though it was clear he was trying to hide himself, to become as small a target as possible.

Their reactions made Gendry smile just a bit. He'd heard many stories about the she-wolf in his days since arriving in Winterfell, but he hadn't been able to pick her out of the shadows yet. No matter, he had plenty of stories about her of his own. "At night, when I traveled with her, she would sing a song of death. It changed over time. The men she sang about would die and then she'd pick a new name to curse. I couldn't image what the song sounds like now, but you can bet your rations for a month that she still recites it to the moon every time it rises. No one is safe from the list if you dare cross her. It doesn't matter what gods you worship, the old or the new, at a tree or in a sept. Death transcends them all, and no faith or creed will save you from her wrath."

Dalon lifted his head and in a curious tone asked, "How did you survive her then?"

Genry laughed. "Don't get me wrong, I sure as shit angered her from time to time. But even she knows love, knows it well, and if you know love you can know forgiveness. I certainly needed forgiving once or twice, but so did she." He gave a deep sigh and cast a glance at the floor. A sadness and great longing welled within him. "Death was the closest thing I've known to family. Death… and a boy named Pie. A stupid name for a stupid boy." The children giggled wildly at this. "Oy, you shouldn't laugh. He could cook a squirrel fit for a king's banquet table."

"I want a Pie squirrel!" Dalon exclaimed.

"I would_ love _a Pie squirrel!" Gretchyn one-upped her brother. "Especially if it's good enough for Death."

"Aye, it was good enough for us both. And if you survive the coming battle you can have one, yourself. Last I heard he was still at the inn where we left him, cooking for travelers and lifting their spirits."

The youngest gave a determined nod. "One day, when I'm a soldier, I'll go visit Pie."

"Girls can't be soldiers!" Dalon objected.

"If Death can be a girl then so can soldiers," Gretchyn fired back.

"But Father always said!"

"Your father was wrong," Gendry snorted. "Lady Brienne of Tarth is leading our left flank against the white walkers when they arrive. Our queen is riding into battle of the back of a_ dragon_. If your sister is set on becoming a soldier then I'd dare you or anyone else to try and stop her once all this is over. The world is changing, and you wouldn't want to anger Death by clinging to such old ways of thinking."

Dalon's open mouth snapped shut. Turning to his sister, he squeaked out, "I'm ready to go to bed now."

Gretchyn began to protest, but the blacksmith shook his head. "Your brother is right. You've had your story and I have to get back to work. Go on now. You can come break your fast with me at first daylight."

The little girl ran up and gave him a quick hug before allowing her brother to drag her back to their quarters. Gendry quickly scarfed down the rest of his stew and got back to work. There was much to do, and they didn't yet have word on how far south the army of the dead had made it. They could besiege Winterfell in a week or a month, and each seemed just as likely as the other. Every arrow and sword he made meant one more soldier who could fell a white walker, one more soldier who had a shot at seeing summer. It had been a long journey to the seat of House Stark, longer than he or Arya had dared imagine for the sake of their hopeful spirits when they'd started their journey north all those years back. The circumstances weren't what he'd hoped for, but at least he knew he belonged there, that he had a purpose there beyond anything he'd known before. All those years hiding in Flea Bottom, he knew he was waiting for something that would give him meaning.

A part of him had always hoped that meaning would lead him back to Winterfell, ever since he'd been sold off to the Red Woman and taken away from Arya. All his life others had used him as a pawn in their games. It was his curse, he knew now, as a bastard of the highest seat in Westeros. Children of powerful houses were little more than pawns to their elders, as he had come to learn. Arya, however, had introduced him to a world where he might control his own fate. It was only when he was separated from her that he realized how much their trials and travels had changed him. Meeting her had given him a purpose all his own, and he would chase that feeling to the edge of the known world.

Arya. His thoughts circled her often but she had become such an elusive figure in his mind. It had been four or more years since he'd last seen her. She would be a woman grown by then, and a fearsome one at that if the stories held true. House Frey, the rat Littlefinger, it was said that she'd been their end. Her list must be getting very short, indeed. In a way, he was in awe of her reputation. She hadn't been much of a killer when he'd known her, just a young girl fleeing the War of the Five Kings, four of whom had wanted her dead. They had been thick as thieves during that time, though, and it didn't surprise him one bit what she'd become.

He knew her family better now than he'd likely know her, should their paths come to cross in the bustling stronghold of her ancestral home. Jon was everything she'd said he'd be, though Sansa was none of what he'd been told. He wondered if the discrepancy between the entitled dreamer of Arya's stories and the confident, cunning Lady of Winterfell was due to a childhood rivalry or half a lifetime of trauma. His knowledge of the Stark history and Arya herself told him it was some of both. He knew a bit about the character-building effects of trauma, himself. He had been 16 when he left for the Night's Watch, much like Jon had been, and all that had happened since had turned him nearly unrecognizable. He liked Jon. They were of an age and had some shared experiences, a bastard brotherhood in a way. He knew how Arya adored him, too, and had to wonder if some of those similarities had caused her to view him as in the light of an elder brother. His feelings for her had been ones of great protectiveness and affection, but he couldn't say he'd ever seen her as a little sister.

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**AN:** Please let me know what you thought of this! I've never written for this fandom before!


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